


Once in Seventy Years

by penthea



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Historical, Boats and Ships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-07
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-25 19:56:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penthea/pseuds/penthea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There is a star which appears once in seventy years that makes the captains of the ships err.<br/>(the Talmud)</i></p><p>RMS Mauretania sets out from Liverpool in July 1911.</p><p>On board are two very different men.</p><p>Artist and bohemian Kurt Hummel, unwilling to go back to Paris after his father's death, has spent his last money and part of the inheritance on a third class ticket to America. Noah Puckerman, son of a wealthy New York banker, is bringing a fiancee back from Europe. Miss Rachel Berry may not be the love of his life, but she comes with a baby sister, Beth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://puckurt.livejournal.com/970926.html?thread=25702318#t25702318) on the LJ Puckurt fic meme.  
> I apologize for any historical inaccuracies, of which there are sure to be many despite my best effort and Wikipedia addiction.

_Postcard showing the Tower of London, New York, March 2nd, 1911_

Puckerman-  
I found what you're looking for.  
You owe me one.  
Charlie

 _Postcard showing a smirking actress in a large feathered hat, New York, March 2nd, 1911_

Charlie -  
No, I don't.  
Lunch tomorrow, usual place? I will be there at two.  
Puck

 

 

 _Liverpool, June 5th, 1911_

My Dear Brother,

I hope this letter will reach you in time, or at all. I don't know much about your Bohemian life in Paris, and truth be told I suspect that is for the best.

I write to inform you that your father's health has taken a turn for the worse. The doctors say his heart is weak. Please do not blame yourself for leaving - I know you will, but I promise, mother has been taking excellent care of him.

You know how proud your father is, of you, but also in the general sense. He would never put anything before your happiness, and so it falls to me to write and beg you to please come home.

I wouldn't ask it of you if I didn't believe it necessary. I'm so terribly sorry.

Your loving brother,  
Finn Hudson

 

 

 _London, June 20th, 1911_

Dear Ma,

Sorry for not writing earlier. I trust you and Sarah are well, as am I. I have some rather important news to share with you and Father.

I am engaged to be married.

You know that Father has been eager for me to find a nice Jewish girl to marry, and I have. As he has been quite insistent on the idea of marriage, and less specific about the requirements for my future wife, I though it prudent to go ahead and choose a girl before he decided to choose one for me. Knowing Father, I am sure you understand.

The lucky girl is in fact an American, the daughter of a Hiram Berry, of New York City. She's a talented singer and actress, come to London with her mother and very young sister, to pursue a career on the stages of the West End. I haven't have the pleasure of meeting my future father in law, but rest assured that I have his permission. I believe Father would have approved of my attention to manners, though I did get the impression that Mr. Berry may put less stock in that kind of thing. Either way, I've got his approval, and the lovely Miss Rachel Berry has promised me her hand in marriage.

We will return to New York. I have had quite enough of Europe, it is old fashioned and prejudiced. I believe I share the feeling with many of our people - there is so much talk here, among the young and radical, of Palestine. I'm less inclined towards politics than most, and Father will be pleased to hear that my friends here in London have yet to make a socialist of me, though it's not for want of trying. As it is, though, I rather prefer the idea of coming home, and thankfully Miss Berry agrees.

We are due to depart in three weeks, making the crossing on the Mauretania.

Your Loving Son,  
Noah

 

 

 _On a piece of paper already used on both sides for sketches, left on a stained kitchen table in an apartment in Montparnasse, June 1911_

Blaine,  
I would have said goodbye to you in person, but you weren't here. Wes says he has no idea where you have gone and knowing you, you don't know yourself and may not return for days. I won't endeavour to find whatever seedy establishment where you're probably singing and charming rich ladies for money to buy paint, not that I judge you, that would be hypocrisy, and we've both always loathed that vice. Even if you had too much cheap wine again and are sleeping it off in some filthy apartment - you really won't like whoever it was half as much when sober, in case you are reading this and thinking about going back.

Blaine, I don't have much time, I am leaving for England in an hour. My father is ill again. It's all horrible and it shouldn't have been like this, but perhaps it's for the best. I'm leaving my brother's address, and will write you as soon as I know more, but I must go immediately.

I will be always thankful to you for finding me when I arrived here not knowing what I was looking for, for translating Greek poetry and taking me to the Louvre, for letting me drag you too many times to Durand-Ruel's to see the View of Toledo. I wish I didn't have to go, I wish I could have been your Agathon, I wish I could stay to see the pictures that I've seen in you take shape on canvas.

They say friendship is the purest, the most true and lasting love. I'm not strong enough, yet, for us to have that, but I think I shall be. Until then - courage.

Kurt


	2. Departure

The general chatter and noise of the Liverpool docks right before the departure of the RMS Mauretania can not, despite its extreme loudness, drown out Miss Berry.

"Oh, Noah, look! How large it is, up close! Did you know the Maury has held the Blue Riband since 1909? That means it's the fastest ocean liner in the _world_. We must go and find our cabins right away, there is so much to unpack and mother and I need to do my breathing exercises, there was just no time this morning. Oh, and I saw a picture of the dining room, my friend Phyllis says it is marvelous." She leans towards him, glances around, and continues in a stage whisper. "That's Phyllis Dare, the actress, I'm sure you must have heard of her."

Noah keeps his eyes on her hat, a large teetering mass of unidentifiable somethings. He has no idea who Phyllis Dare is. He is sure she has told him, repeatedly, but he's refused to let the information stick.

"Oh, Noah." Her disapproval is tinged with perverse pleasure. "It's a good thing I am so knowledgeable about musical theater. I see I shall have to teach you _everything._ " She actually claps her hands and grins. Noah's eyes drop, and slowly follow the slope of her slim ribcage towards her waist.

Her mother watches indulgently. Noah sighs, pays the driver, and leads the women onto the gangway. A nursemaid follows close behind, carrying a girl of perhaps two years in her arms. The baby is whining softly. The nursemaid, not much more than a child herself in Noah's opinion, makes no serious attempt at comforting her.

He turns and leans down to catch the baby's eye, winks and tells her in a low and serious voice, "Don't cry, Betty-Boo. You're going to America with you mama and your sister and me, and I just know you'll love it. Yeah, there's a good girl."

The child quiets down, and he smirks, satisfied, as Mrs. Berry turns to look at them. She must be forty years old, but with her trim figure and sternly beautiful features, she looks younger. She stares shrewdly at him. He stares back, daring her to comment, and her eyes soften into a hint of a smile.

 

As he is pushed and shoved by a smelly crowd that seems to speak every language but English, Kurt Hummel wonders what he has done.

He feels terribly out of place. All these desperate emigrants from all over, wearing strange clothes and threatening to crumple his drawings, and here he is, trying to cram himself on board to find the men's dormitory that will be his home for the next five days. He shudders at the thought. Then he remembers that he endured worse, that first winter in Paris. New York, he repeats to himself. I'm doing this for New York.

He finds a bunk near one end of the large, dark room. His blond neighbor smiles at him and introduces himself, in a thick Welsh accent, as Samuel Evans. Both friendly and English-speaking. Under the circumstances, not a bad stroke of luck.

He takes it back almost immediately as a group of large, barrel chested and very short-haired men occupy the bunks on the other side, jostling each other and arguing in some unpleasant Slavic language over who gets what bed. The beds are identical. Kurt forces himself to stand up straight and not shrink towards the wall, and turns his focus back to Evans.

"Kurt Hummel." It looks like he might need an ally, and Evans seems surprisingly unaffected by the miasma of _sissy boy scandalous eccentric wrong_ that follows him wherever he goes and makes places like this a challenge. He forces himself to open his mouth again. Be friendly. Make conversation. "You don't sound like you're from Liverpool."

"I'm Welsh. Rhondda Valley." He runs a hand through his hair and looks up at Kurt, ready to flinch at whatever he thinks he'll find there. Kurt allows his eyes a brief run down the man's body. His chest is flat and broad, and the flannel shirt he's wearing obviously hides muscular arms and shoulders.

"Coal miner?"

Evan smiles and shrugs. "Me and my da and my little brother Stevie are all colliers. Back in the valley, you go down the pit at fourteen, unless you own the mines or you're a preacher, isn't it?"

"And you're not a preacher."

He shrugs again. "I couldn't well be, with my da in the Socialist Society. I figure I'll get down to Pennsylvania, find a job there, try to send enough money home to keep them eating 'til the strike's over. Save up for Stevie to come join me." His look darkens, and Kurt nods quietly. Compared to a starving family and a little brother down a coal mine, the things he's leaving behind (dead mother, dead father, dead dreams) seem insignificant and vain. But because he's not a good little Christian boy, it doesn't make him feel any better, he just feels guilty on top of everything else.

"I'm going out for a bit of air, I think. See you around, Evans."

 

It's dark, but Kurt can still make out the shapes of white foam in the ship's wake. It's a long way down. Anything that fell in that close would be dragged down and under.

He's not going to jump, or anything, but he throws a wadded piece of paper from his pocket over the edge and thinks about what it would be like to want to.

It's been a long time since he believed in Heaven, if he ever did. His father is dead, rotting in the ground beside his mother's bones. They're buried in physical, dirty British soil, and he's leaving them. And for what?

A life without Blaine, in a place where finding someone else would make him a criminal. He should have stayed in France, or gone to Italy, but he decided it didn't matter because he was never going to love someone again, anyway. And what makes him think anyone will understand his art in America, when they barely did in Paris?

He climbs slowly, carefully onto the railing. He's going to not let go. You can't not jump without standing somewhere that could be jumped from. It makes perfect sense. Kurt lowers himself carefully onto the edge of the deck outside the railing, holding on to it behind him. The mild, damp wind tugs at his hair.

A man's voice calls out. He startles and grips harder and knows for certain that he wants to live.

"Don't! What are you doing? Hold on, man!" The voice is deep, the accent American. He turns and sees a man about his own age, broad and handsome, dressed in a crisp dark suit and felt hat.

"I'm fine", he calls back, and stifles a giggle because in his current position, how could he possibly expect anyone to believe that? "I'm not going to jump."

"Glad to hear it," the man says, moving in behind him, "but under the circumstances, forgive me for not being absolutely convinced of your judgment." His voice is close to Kurt's ear, and he feels large, strong hands grip his waist - and oh, his reaction to that is absolutely inappropriate.

"Thank you for your concern, sir", Kurt manages to choke out. "I think I'm going to climb back on the other side now, if that's all right with you."

The other man exhales loudly. "Yeah. Yeah, I think that would be a good idea." He keeps his hold on Kurt until he's safely back inside the metal rail, and if Kurt takes a little extra time, he has a world of good excuses.

Once they've both got their legs safely planted on deck, he extends his hand. "I'm Kurt Hummel. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

The man - the tall, dark, handsome, obviously rich American stranger who just swooped in to save him - actually laughs. Kurt wills himself not to blush. He's not a girl. This is not one of his stepmother's stupid romantic novels. But when the man takes his hand in a warm, firm grip and purrs, "Noah Puckerman. The pleasure is all mine", he has to admit that if it were, Mr. Puckerman would make an admirable hero.


	3. The Misses Berry

He makes up in his mind elaborate fantasies about running away from this whole wretched engagement. Chicago, San Francisco, Buenos Aires, he doesn't care. His whole body itches with trapped anxiety. He locks it down. It doesn't matter anymore. At first, it was more the principle of the thing. He had a child somewhere, a child that he wanted, no matter how much its mother didn't, and nobody just takes what belongs to Noah Puckerman. And then he met her, his daughter, and he knew he was done for.

Beth. He never gets to see her, she's just his fiancee's little sister, and he's a man and so not really supposed to take an interest in babies, even his own. Even if anyone knew she was his.

She's beautiful. He shouldn't have been surprised - how could his and Lucy's daughter not be beautiful? In a photograph, the three of them would make the perfect little family, which is hilarious because in reality she's a shrew, he's a screw-up, and they'd be a disaster. Not that he hadn't been willing to try anyway.

Beth looks like her mother, he thinks, but with his curly hair. The hazel eyes could be from either of them, except sometimes when she's thinking she gets a far-away, calculating look in them that is one hundred percent Lucy, not to mention extremely unsettling on a two-year-old.

He could never leave her. He'll marry Rachel Berry, who's a very nice girl, really. In the back of his mind he knows that her being his daughter's sister is the kind of thing that might bother other people, but they don't need to know, do they, and it doesn't matter one little bit to him except the part where he only gets to be the brother. He'd have married Mrs. Berry - from what he hears about her husband, there are definitely grounds for a divorce - if he thought she'd go for it, but she's honestly too smart for him to try it. From the ashes into the fire and burnt children and all that.

The daughter seemed like a much safer bet. People don't tend to think he's all that intelligent, and maybe he isn't, but he's not a bad gambler, when the stakes are high enough.

 

 

The girl has appalling taste in clothes. Maybe it says something unflattering about Kurt that that's the first thing he notices, but really, he's not a snob. None of his friends have money, or, with the exception of Blaine, class, and the very existence of starving artists proves that aesthetic sense has little or nothing to do with wealth. It should be unsurprising that it works both ways. Still. He thinks that might be a whole bird on her hat.

By contrast, the older woman with her is wearing a sleek, almost masculine navy blue suit with a high collar and a skirt just wide enough to not be ridiculously impractical. They look so much alike, though, that he thinks they must be sisters - or, on closer look, perhaps mother and daughter. They're both small, dark, and beautiful. And what makes him really notice them,  (other than the bird, that is), none of them affect the pleasantly vapid look of most women who care about being thought beautiful.

They're engaged in an intense conversation, as it turns out when they come close enough for him to overhear.

"Of course formal training is dreadfully important, Mama, but I really don't think you can underestimate the role of talent!"

"Talent is necessary, but not sufficient. There is really no use occupying oneself with what one cannot change, darling."  
Kurt smiles to himself. Spoken like a true artist. A former ballerina, perhaps?

They stop, throwing a few glances at him before continuing their debate. The mother's perhaps slightly disdainful, the daughter's eagerly curious. He wonders if he should attempt conversation. He's not sure what the proper etiquette is for an artist whose view of his subject is blocked by a lady's visually offensive hat.

Blaine would know. Kurt, no matter how full of French culture, how bohemian in his moral attitudes, is still English petit-bourgeois by birth, and consequently this makes him anxious. He knows and hates that about himself, but so far hasn't been able to change it.

The ladies show no sign of planning to move, so he simply keeps drawing, letting his concentration mute their voices in his head.

 

He's not sure how long they've been standing there when a man joins them. His carriage is so entirely different that Kurt doesn't recognize him at first. He walks slowly, sullenly, with hunched shoulders and a brooding frown on his face, and yet it is unmistakably Noah Puckerman.

He brightens when he sees Kurt, quickly walking over and leaning around him to look at his drawing. He looks at the paper, up at the ladies, back to the paper, and finally, at Kurt, his face splitting into a huge mischievous grin.

He can't say anything, though, before he's interrupted by the younger woman. "Noah! Who is this? Do you know him?" Her voice is very loud and clear, almost like she's playing to an audience - aha, so she must be an actress, or perhaps a singer.

Mr. Puckerman - Noah - smiles at her. "Rachel, allow me to introduce to you Mr. Kurt Hummel. Mr. Hummel, this is my fiancée, Miss Berry."

"But when did you meet? Mr. Hummel, I couldn't help but notice you were drawing. Are you an artist? Are you English? Or - Hummel is a German name, isn't it? I do hope I haven't offended you, I have absolutely nothing against the German, they have produced some of the finest dramatic singers..." She trails off, or perhaps runs out of breath.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Berry, and no offense taken. Yes, I'm from Liverpool, though you're right, my father's ancestors were from Saxony, and I've lived in Paris for most of the last five years."

"Oh! A Parisian artist, how exiting! I do so love the arts. May I see what you were working on?"

Her fiancé is beginning to look vaguely embarrassed. Kurt looks down at his sketch book. "Ah - ", he silently begs Mr. Puckerman for some kind of guidance, but none is forthcoming. Oh, who cares, he thinks, it's amusing, and frankly she deserves it. He hands it over.

On the page, an eerily distorted, unnaturally large dead bird looms over the head of a pretty young girl. Her face falls comically. To her credit, it's only for a brief instant before she composes herself, squaring her shoulders and putting a cordial smile on her face. She's obviously pretentious and vain despite her horrible taste in hats, and she's marrying Mr. Puckerman. By all rights, he ought to hate her. But as he sees how bravely she swallows an impressive amount of pride, he finds that he can't.

"I apologize, I should have warned you that it's a little... avant-garde. I'm trying to draw, or paint, the emotions that a scene evokes - what it looks like to the soul, rather than the eyes. I'm inspired by Munch, and I'm well aware his work is far from everybody's taste."

Mr. Puckerman looks amused, but also fascinated. "Well," he offers, "I liked it."

Miss Berry hasn't handed his sketchbook back. She's obviously steeling herself for a second look. He takes pity on her, and reaches out to turn the page. "Perhaps you'd rather see some of my other drawings."

With the distraction of personal vanity removed, it seems that she actually appreciates them. She turns the pages slowly. "They're lovely. I've never seen anything like them before, but...they're beautiful, Mr. Hummel." She stops. "Who is this?"

The page she's looking at is one of his less experimental, done in a more impressionistic style. It's full of portraits of his brother, from different angles. Kurt did them the day before he left, one of Finn and one of his stepmother. He was feeling guilty about going away and afraid to forget what they looked like, so he tried to capture not only their faces, but the way they move, their gestures and spirits.

Rachel is staring, dreamy-eyed, at the drawings.

"My brother, Finn. Stepbrother, actually, you'll notice we don't look much alike."

"Is he an artist, too?"

"Finn? Oh, no. He builds automobiles. I think his dream is to become the British Henry Ford."

"Really! Well, I think that's an admirable pursuit. Tell me, is he as tall as he looks in your drawings?"

Yes, yes he is. His brother is a ruddy, clumsy, overly tall Englishman, and Miss Berry, who is _engaged to Noah Puckerman_ , has apparently decided to fall in love with a picture of him. He may have decided to like her, but she's a very strange girl.


	4. Life drawing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nude and a necklace. Noah makes his debut as an artist's model.

"I'm just saying, if you ever need a model, all you have to do is ask." Puckerman assumes a tough-guy pose, one hand on the brim of his hat, and Kurt can't deny that the effect is striking. He could be a mobster, the seductive kind of criminal. Too far up on the chain of command to get his own hands dirty, but with the predatory animal grace that lets you know he is absolutely dangerous. Kurt doesn't for a second believe it's true, but it's still unsettling how well he assumes the role. A rebellious youth, perhaps. Friends in the high kind of low places.

Puckerman takes in his reaction, somehow invading Kurt's space like a touch. "Or do you prefer the classical style? I'm not shy." His body shifts, improbably, into a flawless contrapposto pose, unmistakably Michelangelo's David. It's astonishing, actually, but it also takes Kurt aback because it's such a Blaine thing to do.

Then Puckerman leans in and whispers, "David got me kicked out of art class, you know. And all I did was ask if the man wasn't supposed to be Jewish, and if Michelangelo was such a stickler for anatomical detail..." He shrugs and raises a suggestive, not at all Blaine-like eyebrow.

Kurt opens his mouth, then closes it. He can vividly imagine that. Also, Puckerman is standing very close to his body and implying things about naked Jewish men.

"So, what do you say, babe? Come back to my cabin and see if you can do better?"

Kurt is aware that the goldfish motions he is making are unattractive.

Puckerman tilts his head and smirks, and it should be sleazy and awful, but his damnable, irresistible eyes are sparkling and it takes Kurt's breath away.

He nods and follows.

 

Kurt has no idea where to look. There is brass and velvet and crystal everywhere, and while it's beautiful, it also makes him a little afraid to move. And then there's Puckerman, who throws himself nonchalantly on the sofa and eyes Kurt appraisingly. "Where do you want me, babe?"

"Um. Where you are is fine, actually." Kurt can feel the blush creeping up from his chest.

"All right, you're the genius artist." Puckerman has discarded his coat, and is working on the buttons of his waistcoat as he speaks.

"Mr. Puckerman, you don't have to..." It's not quite a squeak, but it's not all that far from it. And what the hell is he doing, stopping Puckerman from taking his clothes off?

Puckerman continues to remove his waistcoat.

"I thought you fellows liked to study the beauty of the human body. I don't mind. Only one thing - if I'm going to be naked, you're going call me Noah."

"Noah." He breathes the name out softly, and Pu - _Noah_ takes that as assent.

He undresses with an easy contempt for modesty - different from anything Kurt has ever seen, a little bit of each of aristocrat, street urchin, prostitute and rebel, yet obviously none of these things.

 

"Have you ever done this before?", he asks, once he has recovered his breath. Noah has to think about it for a moment. Generally, for him, the answer to that question is always yes and no. If we're speaking in categories, there are few things he hasn't tried, and yet no two experiences are alike (which is why he will never be satisfied, or ruined, or bored, or any of those things that decadence is supposed to do to you). Has he been drawn before? Been naked with a man? Yes. Has he done these things on a ship, with an adorably flustered, otherworldly beautiful English artist? No, but he is grateful for the opportunity.

"Well. I've never had anyone draw me in the nude before. But if you're you asking about the part where I take a pretty boy back to my rooms? Yeah, that's happened once or twice." He flashes his best charming, roguish smile at Kurt. He may be arrogant, but it's obvious that the man is inclined to certain kinds of sins. Noah probably needs to lay it on a bit thick to make him feel safe enough to commit them with him, but that's all right. He rather enjoys that part, anyway.

Kurt swallows, blushes even more, and ignores the second part of the statement. Noah smiles. He knows he heard him, and he has plenty of time. Mrs. Berry and Rachel won't be back for hours.

He's standing in the middle of the floor with his legs and arms crossed, wound up in complete contrast to Noah's relaxed sprawl. His voice is tight, nervous but trying for professional distance. "Okay. Lean back a little more, if you can? This will take a while, and you'll have to keep still for me, so make sure you're comfortable. Yes. That's perfect."

 

They watch each other silently while Kurt works. Noah has no idea what Kurt is looking for, exactly, but he loves seeing the tightly wound man in front of him gradually lose himself in his work, his posture loosening, his cheeks flushing and his lovely lips relaxed in concentration, perfectly combed hair no longer quite as perfect, eyes fierce.

The room seems warmer, and Kurt must feel it too, because he undoes the top buttons on his shirt. Maybe that works to cool him off, but the glimpse of pale skin and sharp collarbone has rather the opposite effect on Noah.

He's wearing some kind of necklace, and the next time he bends forward, a golden pendant falls out. Noah expects him to quickly tuck it back into his shirt, but Kurt either doesn't care or is too absorbed in his work. The thing is slightly old fashioned, shaped like a girl with long, gently curving hair. Her tiny golden toes are pointed, and her knees drawn up towards her chest. She also sports a set of delicate dragonfly wings. Noah snorts.

"Tell me you're not actually wearing a fairy necklace."

Kurt arches an eyebrow. "I'll have you know it belonged to my dead mother." The glint of his eye, though, betrays that he's aware of the humor, even relishes it. "I started wearing it to have a piece of her with me. I continued because it made my brother so uncomfortable."

Noah laughs, and Kurt attempts to hide his smile. "A good model traditionally lies still until he's asked to move, Noah."

"Sorry. Won't happen again." He's not really sorry, but Kurt doesn't need to know that.

"It's fine. As a matter of fact, I'm almost finished." He makes a few more strokes with his pencil. "There. I don't really need you for the rest of it. You're dismissed."

Noah does his best to look wounded, and now Kurt laughs.

"Not like that. It's your room. I just meant you're allowed to move again."

He stands up, stretches his arms and back deliberately, then walks over to Kurt and peeks over his shoulder.

Noah is, by all accounts, very confident about his own desirability, but the drawing surprises him. It's somehow absolutely filthy, without showing anything especially depraved, and he feels strange and narcissistic looking at it. It's more than he had dared to hope for.

He puts his arms around Kurt's waist and rests his chin on his shoulder. Noah feels his slim, hard body tense at the contact.

"You flatter me."

"Remember what I told you yesterday, about wanting to paint emotions and soul?", Kurt asks, lifting a hand to run his stained fingertips over the back of his. "This isn't really you, Noah. This is me."

He can't tell hope or anticipation from arousal, they're all one big blaze. He hears himself groan, then Kurt's surprised gasp as he's grabbed by the hips and turned around, and the clatter as he drops his sketchbook on the floor. And then he's got his mouth on Kurt's, undressing him with one hand while the other takes advantage of the work already done, and breaths and moans and whimpers are the only sounds in the world.


	5. What's underneath

Of course they do it again. Yes, Noah is engaged and in fact traveling with his fiancée, but they do it anyway.

It helps with everything except Kurt's guilt that Rachel is absolutely captivated by him, begging Noah to invite him for dinner, hanging on to his every word about Paris. Mrs. Berry blatantly disapproves, but there's not much she can do about it except glare and pointedly speak to them like children. Noah is the man, the one with the power and the money, and he can tell that grates on her. He doesn't give a damn. Of course he knows it's inappropriate to make friends with a third class passenger, but they're young, they're American, and Kurt's an artist.

Noah is of the opinion that there's no point in having money if he's going to let it limit him, and rules are stupid anyway.

So they go for walks on the deck when they know Kurt will be there, sketching in the outdoor light, and stop to talk. It's mostly Rachel talking, but then at night, Noah sneaks away with Kurt, gets him into places he shouldn't be. He even puts on his least banker's-son-like outfit and comes down to third to meet Sam Evans.

 

Kurt is a little worried about that. Sam is friendly and tolerant, but drinks and a game of cards with an actual capitalist will probably be a new experience for him. Kurt likes them both a lot, but he'd prefer not to cause a violent proletarian uprising, even on a very small scale.

They both promise to behave, though, so he takes the chance. It helps when Sam understands that Noah is Jewish and not a member of any sort of land-owning class. They actually seem to enjoy talking politics, about Russia and Palestine and the British Labour Party, and after a while Kurt just leans back and listens. Floating on the pleasant disconnection of just enough alcohol, he feels like maybe there's something to be said for America after all.

There's music coming through the wall, and Sam go to investigate if there might be Dutch girls to dance with. Kurt mumbles something about being tired. He truly is, but when Sam's gone, and Noah squints at him and drawls, "so, I know about a place", he jumps to his feet so fast it's almost embarrassing.

Soon he finds himself in the dark corner of a deck passengers aren't meant to be on.There's nowhere to sit except the disgusting floor, so he leans against the wall. At first Noah does the same, but then he turns and moves closer until he's really leaning on Kurt.

It's easier to tell your secrets to someone's hair than to their eyes, and Noah must feel the same about Kurt's shoulder. He whispers into his shirt about New York, stories that Kurt thinks are really about his family. In return, Kurt tells him the real story about Paris, the one he couldn't give Rachel because it's really about Blaine.

 

"Do you remember Halley's comet? We had a comet-watching party, last summer, of all things, some friend with a telescope. And Blaine...made this long, rambling speech, it was supposed to be a toast, I don't know. He was drunk out of his mind on horrid French table wine. His main point was that I was like the comet, a beautiful star that only shows up once in a lifetime, too scary and fascinating for mortals."

He picks at his nails.

"Nobody cared, because that's the kind of thing Blaine does, and our friends...they enjoyed the scandal of it, another great story for their next party. I think he compared me to Juliet on the balcony at one point, and at least two heroines from the Greek myths."

"So he's standing on top of the table, delivering this soliloquy about me, and I'm about to die of embarrassment, and some of the things he's saying are...not that flattering, on a second look. He'd read some ancient quote - Jewish, actually - it's from the Talmud? There is a star which appears once in seventy years that makes the captains of the ships err. In his mind, I was the star and he was the captain, and he could blame me for all this mistakes."

Noah lifts his head to look at him.

"That's a sorry excuse, if the Jews have known about it for centuries."

I wouldn't do that. The message is loud and clear, if oddly mixed up with ethnic pride, and Kurt can't help thinking no, I don't think you would.

 

The thing is, Kurt would have sworn he wasn't that kind of boy. He wasn't, before. He doesn't take risks like this, he doesn't do stupid amazing things in dirty places where he might get caught.

It's not about thinking it's wrong. He doesn't believe in God, or care about society. Kurt decided, a long time ago, that if people won't approve of him no matter how hard he tries, he has no obligation to waste his life trying. He rejects their rules.

Still. he was always afraid of the consequences. He was never reckless. But the way Noah looks at him, like he's so damn reasonable and the world just needs to catch up, makes him want to be.

And then there's the fact that now that he's seen Noah naked, he can't stop. You would think that would be easy, seeing as he is in fact wearing clothes most of the time, but now Kurt _knows what's under them_. He knows in the intimate detail of an artist who's studied every shadow, every dip and swell, but he also knows deep in his bones like someone who's stroked and kissed and licked. The combination is devastating.

Every time Noah shrugs, that's his shoulder right there, and Kurt is reminded of what that shoulder looks like beneath the layers of fabric, of the faint ridges of muscle under the skin. He feels the ghost of his hand molding to the curve of it. And that leads to thinking about how odd it is, really, that the same palm can cup so many different parts of Noah perfectly, and, well. That's why Noah can't shrug anymore without Kurt losing his mind a bit.

And now he's burrowing into Kurt's shoulder, and it absolutely breaks Kurt the way someone so broad and manly is tucked against his neck, like he's not sure if he wants to hide there or he wants to bite it, perhaps it's both. _Please let it be both._

The pressure of Noah's nose on the skin right beneath his ear, slightly cold and just so definitely _there_ , is doing things to Kurt that he's sure noses shouldn't. Then there's lips, too, and a tongue, and Noah's hand at the back of his neck stroking the short bristly hairs there.

Kurt can't help it, he's starting to make desperate little noises and leaning harder on the wall because his legs are going useless under him. When Noah feels that, he stops mouthing at Kurt's throat to smirk at him, the smug bastard, and Kurt almost hates him for half a second. But then he pushes Kurt back, wedging him between the cold wall and the warm firm weight of his own body, and the genius of that is it keeps him upright while leaving Noah's hands free. They are everywhere, strong and sure, in his hair, on his face, around his waist, even if he knows logically that Noah only has two, so it must be something to do with his perception of time.

He's being held, engulfed, he's in that lovely, lovely place he doesn't get to go to often enough, because his mind is too sharp, too aware, not built for abandon or easy ecstasy. It's bright daylight in Kurt's mind. When he's painting, he can take that light and focus it in one burning point, and it helps, but there is always that sober clarity. He likes how it makes him brilliant, but sometimes he longs for the magic that can only happen late at night in badly lit places.

Noah takes him there. He dims the light until there's one flickering candle, and all Kurt can see or feel is Noah, but only in bits and pieces. It's like a Picasso, or a Kandinsky, it's like if those two got together to reinterpret Munch's Madonna, so help him God that he doesn't believe in anymore.

Because there is the length of Noah's body pushing against his, four layers of cloth between them, which is far too much, but not too much to feel the strength of his chest, and the muscles in his legs, his hips unyielding between Kurt's legs. He's not quite rubbing himself against Kurt, unwilling to give up enough force to actually move, so it's stuttering desperate half-thrusts that don't actually go anywhere, just hot, hard, pulsing pressure that makes Kurt want to throw his head back and yell, or beg, or cry, anything.

Still, there's a tiny shred of thought left that knows he should be quiet, so he bites his lip and chants _Noah, Noah, Noah_ in his head, until it's all too much and he drops over the edge, shuddering, finally letting the name escape out loud.

Noah pulls his upper body away, just enough to get his arms under Kurt's and get a firm hold on his ribcage. He keeps him pinned to the wall with his hips, not letting up until his arms can hold the weight. Then he starts moving, just three or four times before he's groaning into Kurt's neck, pushing up, up, up against his hip like it will never be enough.

Kurt recovers barely in time to know that very soon, it will be his turn to catch Noah. He can't hold him up, but he goes down with him, gently guiding them to the floor together.

Noah ends up sitting in front of him, between his legs, turned away so Kurt can't see his face. He thinks he feels the shock of an absolutely quiet sob, then another, but he's not sure, not until he draws his finger across a cheekbone and it comes back wet.

He doesn't ask. He holds Noah tight, kisses his hair, and dries his tears until they stop coming.


	6. Buttons

Undressing Noah is Kurt's new favorite thing in the world. He likes nice clothes and naked Noah, so it shouldn't be a surprise that the combination appeals, but it's even better than it ought to be. Perhaps it's Noah's languid cooperation, or the matter-of-fact commentary he provides. Or maybe it's the moment when offhanded conversation breaks down into incoherent sounds, or the way his eyebrows give it away a minute or two before he reaches that point.

Coat first. Noah is handsome in it, Kurt appreciates the way it makes him sharp and square and manly, but he appreciates shirtsleeves and suspenders more. He unbuttons the cuffs of the shirt, pushing his hands up under them to hold Noah's wrists for a moment. Kurt slides his hands up his chest on smooth cool cotton, under the suspenders, pausing for a moment on the shoulders before he pushes them off. He probably ought to do it properly, but he enjoys that move too much.

Then the shirt, and he's down to underwear. Thin white knit clings and stretches across Noah's broad chest, nearly too tight, the buttons almost gaping.

He wears short underwear in the summer, claiming even that is too hot, and the way the edge of the sleeves cut across his solid upper arms makes Kurt want to do embarrassing things, like grab one with both hands and kiss it. He would, if he wasn't sure Noah would be insufferably smug for days.

Oh, that's right, he already is. No reason for Kurt to deny himself, then.

"You like those, babe?" Kurt doesn't answer, opting instead to lick along a vein up to the crook of Noah's elbow, flicking at the thin skin there with his tongue.

He looks up and arches an eyebrow at the sounds that gets him.

"So many buttons. Wherever shall I begin?"

"Ungh" isn't exactly a helpful answer, but very gratifying all the same.

He doesn't really need any help, anyway, because trousers should obviously be next. Perhaps just the one button on the union suit first, though, for better access to Noah's throat while he works on that.

The trousers fall to the ground, and he nudges Noah to step out of them, without really letting go of his neck. Noah doesn't move, though, so Kurt really has no choice but to kneel down and help him, staying close, running his hands down Noah's body as he goes.

Turns out summer underwear isn't a bad look for his lower half, either. The suit ends right below the knee, emphasizing the athletic calves that Kurt takes hold of and lifts out of the trouser legs. Once it's done, he moves slowly back up, tracing Noah's body as he goes. The front, he skims with his face, forehead, nose or lips according to the line of Noah's body.

His hands have the back side covered, calves, the soft little bulge at the back of the knees, the bigger and stronger one of ropy thigh muscles. Then the lovely, subtle concave curve where they end, a perfect place to pause for a moment before he moves on to the more obvious roundness of buttocks.

Conveniently, that leaves his face right around the lowest button in the row, nudging it with his nose and breathing through the fabric, inhaling the smell of Noah until the thin knit is wet. He wanted to take his time with this, but he finds himself suddenly impatient, and he barely has a moment for Noah's waist and the dip of his lower back, the broadening line of it towards the shoulders, before he has to start from the top again, unbuttoning as he goes this time.

For every button, there's a bigger triangle of chest, more soft tan skin to lick. He keeps unbuttoning down to the navel, when he's presented with the awful choice of dipping his tongue in that, following the trail of hair that starts below it, or moving back up to the now-exposed pair of nipples. Kurt wants all of them, right away, he's rushed and desperate and forget dignity, nipples win, only there's two of them, so he's left dithering like a confused dog between a pair of equally tempting bones.

He finally settles on the right one, kissing it chastely first, then open-mouthed, licking around it and over, before finally surrendering to the sensation and just sucking and sucking, hands splayed on Noah's back, no longer aware of any sequence or destination or passage of time, or anything except the taste and texture of Noah.

He could take the time to peel the union suit off him, but he doesn't want to, he doesn't care, the thing has buttons for a reason. He pushes Noah backwards and down on the chair behind him and rips the remaining three open, all in one fluid movement. That's enough, really, for full access to everything he wants right now. He drops to his knees between Noah's legs, pushing his thighs apart, and licks precisely once with the tip of his tongue before taking as much of him as he possibly can in his mouth.

He doesn't hear the sound of the door, or register that Noah's strangled noise is different from the others, before it's decidedly too late.

 

Mrs. Berry is by far the most composed person in the room, Noah second despite still scrambling to put his clothes back on, and Kurt a very distant third.

"I'm going to explain some things to you. You" -- she points at Noah - "are going to break this engagement. Or you allow my daughter to break it, and you will take any and all blame. In return, I will keep my mouth shut about what I just saw. Do you understand?"

Kurt isn't moving, he's barely breathing. Noah sort of wants to take him in his arms and hold him, make sure that he's okay, but he can't imagine that will make matters any better at this point. No wonder Kurt is scared. He has no idea about the leverage Noah holds here.

Of course, there's leverage on the other side, too, that nobody knows about except him.

 

"No." Noah's tilts his head stubbornly, and Kurt can not believe, in this situation, how he can be insane enough to turn her down. They've been caught, damn it, on the way to America, by his...until recently soon to be mother-in-law, and they're lucky if there are pieces of their lives left to be picked up. They really don't have much room to negotiate, but somehow he's not surprised that Noah Puckerman would try anyway.

And in a corner of his heart, beneath the panic? He can't deny that he's a little hurt that Noah won't break the engagement. It's not that he thinks he would choose him over Rachel, he's aware that's impossible, he understands that no matter how much they might...like each other, connect, Noah was probably always going to marry, because that's just how the world is. But that he's so attached to this particular woman, a decent match but with some very serious character flaws - yes, that stings.

"And what makes you think you are in a position to refuse." She makes it sound like it's not really a question, but Kurt thinks there's a hint of uncertainty there that really shouldn't be.

"Your husband is in the NAACP, isn't he?"

Kurt doesn't recognize the acronym, but Mrs. Berry goes a little pale and quiet. Maybe he wasn't as far off the mark as he thought with the mob thing.

"I don't understand why you would bring my husband into this."

"And I think you do."

She's a small woman, but her eyes are dark and hard. Kurt really wouldn't want to be caught between those two.

"You don't know half of what you think you do, young man. Whatever you assume about my husband - it does not mean I will sit by and let you do that to her."

"You let him do it to you, don't you?"

"For Rachel. Who is my child, and Hiram's daughter, who we both love more than anything."

Noah goes very quiet. Kurt can see his jaw clenching.

"And yes, I love him, despite everything, but it is miserable, and it's lonely, and don't imagine for a moment that I'll let Rachel enter that sort of arrangement. She deserves a husband who can love her the way a husband should, Noah, and I think you've made it clear that you are not that man."

She's angry, but also tired, and Kurt thinks he sees her softening around the edges.

"You don't know that."

"Oh, Noah", she sighs, world-weary more than anything. "I see how you look at him."

Kurt draws himself up and in, clears his throat quietly. "I'm not sure what's going on here, but I don't think I'm needed for this discussion." He walks out, careful not to rush or storm until he's out the door.

 

He watches Kurt go, and it's the worst sinking feeling, like everything he ever had just slipped out of his fingers. But at the same time, he's terribly aware of Mrs. Berry's eyes on him, of what she just said, of his own bereft gaze. He tears his eyes away and looks determinedly at her.

"Noah. I'm sorry if I'm overstepping, but I really do like you, so I will say this anyway."

He locks his eyes on her. Beth's mother. He wants to stare at the door, to run after Kurt, but he can't. He needs to convince her, charm her, do something, or he might never see his daughter again.

"People marry for reasons other than love all the time. It's not a rare tragedy, nothing that can't be overcome." She smiles wistfully. "But you shouldn't do it to yourself lightly."

"I'm not - like that. Incapable. I know some men are, but I'm not." He gives her silhouette an appreciative glance, to illustrate his point. Perhaps it's a mistake. You work with the talent you've been given.

"Noah. I understand why you'd want to marry. Children, family, respectability." He could have snorted at the last one, but his breath got stuck on children. "But - not Rachel. Please."

He swallows.

"I love Rachel."

"Sweetheart, you think you do, but...let me tell you a story. You think you know it already, but if you really love Rachel, you need to hear it from me."

Noah wants to run. He wants to sprint out the door so fast he has to hold on to the doorframe and pivot to avoid slamming into the other side of the corridor, and crash through every damn room on this damn boat until he finds Kurt. But he resists the impulse, because he's know Kurt for, what, three days now? And this is his family. His future. He's been young and irresponsible for so long, and whims and flings and mischief have done all right by him so far, but at some point it has to stop. Looks like that point is now. He blinks hard. God damn it all to hell.

"Me and Hiram grew up on the same street. And we were all too poor, too Jewish and too pale, but him a little more than everybody else."

She smiles, tightly, sad but fond, and he sees suddenly that all her smiles are a bit like that.

"He was small and thin and a bit girlish, but he had a sort of solid goodness to him. Like he was more whole than any man on that street, even when he was ten. And I was a girl with an odd name in old outgrown dresses, but I was pretty and I could sing, and people always looked at me like I was a little bit dirty for it, you know? As if I'd already sold myself to get out of there. And I was just ten, too, so the two of us stuck together. His mother joked all the time about us getting married some day. Mine didn't think it was funny."

"Our first kiss was under the stairs when we were thirteen. We both wanted to see what it was like, that was all. So we kissed, and I thought, oh, this is what being in love means. And then I opened my eyes, and he was wiping his mouth with his shirtsleeve. Then he shrugged and said he thought it would be much better with Arthur Dubiel, so I should just ask him instead. Broke my little heart, but I was too proud to let him see that. So I went and kissed Arthur Dubiel, and came back and told Hiram all about it. And that was fine, too."

"By the time we were eighteen, I'd all but given up. But he must have done some thinking on his own, because one day he took me to the park and explained that he loved me, he didn't think he would ever meet a better girl than me, and would I please marry him? Maybe I should have known better, but I still loved him and he was so earnest, there was no way I could say no. So I smiled and told him yes, and our mothers put together a wedding, and then I discovered that nothing had really changed in five years."

"Rachel saved us, in a way. Loving her together...it was almost like loving each other. He was a fantastic father. I guess that's what I hope we can have again with Beth."

"But then he got involved with the rights of colored people, voter registration, things like that, and suddenly all he could talk about was Leroy Williams and his amazing ideas. I don't know if you can understand how much that hurt, Noah, to find out that you've never seen your husband in love before? And he was so irresistibly wonderful like that, too. Giddy and lovestruck and full of enthusiasm. As jealous as I was, it made me love him even more."

She stops, taking a few slow, deliberate breaths.

"And you, Noah, you look at Kurt that exact same way."

She waves him towards the door. "So go after him, why don't you, before you break any more hearts."


	7. Chapter 7

"It's fine, Noah, really. It's an incredibly romantic story, one that I promise not to tell anybody without your express permission, naturally, but I really think the experience can only add depth and maturity to my performances. One cannot play ingenue roles forever, you know. Not that I think I am at that point in my career quite yet."

Her eyes are wide open, as is her mouth, and she's doing things with her arms that strike him as inappropriate outside of pantomine class. Gratitude and relief wash over him as he understands just what she's letting him get out of - what his own stupidity and bad luck saved them from.

He scratches the back of his neck.

"I'm glad you feel that way. And you know I'm always there for you, all right? You'll have to find a new suitor, now, so if anyone needs a lesson in how to treat a lady...you know where to find me."

Rachel grasps his arm, and he's painfully reminded of Kurt doing the same thing earlier, and how he's standing here with absolutely the wrong person.

"Oh, Noah. Promise me you won't completely forget me when we're home. But why are you here? Go talk to him. You need to be happy for me, do you understand?"

She might be on the brink of tears, trying not to let it show, or she might be pretending for dramatic effect. She pats Noah's sleeve stiffly, better suited to soaking up a stain than consoling a man who's probably lost his fiancee, his daughter, and the love of his life, all at once. He hangs his head.

"I can't find him. Guess he doesn't want to see to me."

"What? Noah, he's in love with you. It's ridiculously obvious and the only reason I didn't notice was that I didn't want to see it."

He makes a breathy noise. It's meant to be lightly scornful, but what comes out is more like pitiful, desperate pain.

"Right. I don't think so, Rachel."

She sets her jaw and draws her tiny body up as much as it can be, pushing her straight arms down like she's hoping for an extra inch of lift.

"You just wait here. I am going to fix this."

 

 

 

 

Rachel finds him, or he lets himself be found. Kurt doesn't think he can speak to Noah right now, he doesn't quite know why except he just can't, it just hurts, and he's still too rattled about being found out to actually think a single thought through to completion.

She comes up to him furtively, sidling where she'd usually prefer a full on attack from the front, and he knows she knows. He really hopes she isn't here to ream him out for stealing her man, because as much as he might deserve it he really doesn't think he can stand to hear it right now. As if she can't just waltz in any day and take what he desperately wants but can't have. As if every Blaine Anderson, every Finn Hudson, every blasted Noah Puckerman wouldn't be tempted by what she can give them, inferior knock-off that she is, simply by being born female. He _hates_ her, he's quite sure, so why can't he summon up a cold glare and a haughty dismissal?

"Rachel. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She visibly draws a deep breath.

 

"He's yours. As his fiancee, it would be understandable that you felt that I had some claim, but I've come to tell you the engagement is off. I give you my express blessing and permission, Kurt."

She beams at him. Of course. Nothing but Rachel Berry could possibly be standing between him and eternal happiness. It's not like there's the law, or other people, or Noah himself to worry about. He ought to snap at her, but nothing comes to him, so he smiles back, or rather makes an ingratiating tense grimace. When feels like being mean to himself, he thinks of it as his panicking society hostess face.

"Thank you, Rachel, for taking all of this so well."

"Of course. You do know my father's male lover practically lives at our house. I'm quite used to people expressing their scandalous, but ultimately deeply touching, star-crossed love around me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, didn't you know? I thought Noah would have told you, but I suppose you haven't had much time alone yet. For confidential conversations, I mean."

His face is moving through a variety of possible reactions, but he can't settle on one. So she takes advantage, grabbing his hand decisively and pulling him along before he can decide if he should resist.

 

 

 

Noah stays where she left him, in their favorite low-traffic spot on the deck, because he can't think of anything better to do. He stares into the sea, trying to think of nothing but the smooth patterns of the waves. This must be what Kurt was seeing when they first met, only four days ago, standing on the outside of the railing on a near-deadly mission to remind himself he wasn't actually suicidal. Noah had thought he must be mad, then.

It's another mild, still evening. Darkness is creeping up on him, barely noticed until he looks at the electric lights and sees how bright they already are against the dark blue sky.

He hears steps, and his quiet is disrupted by Rachel Berry marching up to him with Kurt in tow. His heart does a hopeful little jump in his chest at the sight of him. He looks a little confused, and not as sharp as usual. His shirt is rumpled and his hair looks like he's run his hands through it too many times. His expression is soft and unsure, open, but Noah also gets the idea that as always, he's ready to close up and lock down on short notice.

Rachel takes his hand and delivers it to Noah as if it were a package. Kurt simply allows it. His hand is limp in Noah's grip, but he doesn't pull away.

"Now that the engagement is off, I think it's in everybody's interest that the two of you work out your misunderstandings as soon as possible. I'm sure you'll take full advantage of the wonderful opportunity I'm giving you. Au revoir!" Then she leaves, with a wink intended to be seen from the cheapest seats in the house.

Noah looks at Kurt, at his eyes and his nose and his suspenders and unconventionally patterned pants and the tension in his carefully held body, and he thinks, this is it.

He thought it was his daughter, that Beth was God's big challenge for him to get right for once, and maybe she was, but he sees now that she's more than that, she's a whole little person with a mommy and a daddy that are all she's ever known. She might have Noah's blood, but the Berrys are her parents and if he's honest with himself, they can probably provide a better life for her than he could. He'll keep in touch. He'll get to see her. These are all thoughts that have been bouncing around in his head for a while, but he hasn't put them together like this before. He tries to shove it all away, because _Kurt,_ but his mind is racing now, he's figuring it all out. He briefly wonders if it's going to be like all the other times that he thought he had the answer, but this feels different. What he's been finding before is new ways to beat the game, and yeah, that was a rush, but this is saying _fuck the game_ and going off to do something amazing like kissing Kurt.

And maybe he's going to wake up in two months and not know what the hell he was thinking, but he's done that before and ultimately been some kind of fine.

"Kurt, listen to me, there's something I need to tell you, because I'm going to be giving you a big offer here, and you need to know what it is I'm asking."

Kurt doesn't move. He keeps letting Noah hold his hand and whispers "okay."

"So nobody knows this. Some people know a part of it, but I'm the only one who knows the whole truth, but I want you to know because I - I'm offering you my heart, here, and I guess this is part of that."

He pauses. It's surprisingly hard to say it out loud for the first time.

"Beth's my daughter. I mean, not really, she's the Berrys' now, but by blood, she's mine." His heart is beating hard in his chest. "Her mother didn't think I was husband material, so she gave her away. And I couldn't - I went to find her. I know it sounds insane but I was going to marry Rachel just to stay close to her."

Kurt stares at him for a while. He lifts a fist to his mouth. His free hand. He's still not taking away the other. Maybe it's just that he's forgotten about it.

"Noah. Oh my God, Noah, I'm so, so sorry, I wouldn't have, I never meant to do that to you."

Somehow his distraught expression snaps Noah out of it. It was like that with Rachel, too, sometimes, he'd be about to be overtaken by emotion and she'd pull out something so much more, so over the top earnest that all he could do was laugh.

He smirks. "I see you choose to ignore the part where I practically proposed. I swear, if you were a woman I'd be down on one knee by now. Hell, I'll do it anyway, if that's what you want."

He would, too. Kurt gapes. Perhaps he did miss that part in all the excitement.

"I mean it. I know I can't marry you, but I'll promise you to marry nobody else. You'll have my heart and my body and soul. I'll be your patron, your model, anything else you need to be amazing. We'll get a house together, damn what people say, all right? Or I'll run away to Italy with you, if that's what it takes, we can get off this boat and jump on the next one back. I don't care, Kurt, as long as I can have you."

Noah really didn't know he had all that in him, but he knows as he says it that he means every word. He feels like after a good round of sparring down at the boxing club, beat up and breathing hard, but still somehow lighter.

And then it gets even better, because before he has time to get nervous about it, Kurt is a lithe whirlwind in his arms, grinning and crying and jumping up and down, grabbing Noah's arms and touching his face, never mind that they're outdoors and anyone could come around the corner.

"Yes. Of course I will, I have no idea what we're doing here but _yes,_ Noah, anything you want."

It kills Noah to push him away, but he doesn't think he can pull this off twice if they're interrupted again. He keeps a solid hold on Kurt's shoulders to let him know that he's still here, no regrets.

"Let's take this somewhere a little more private, okay? I know a place."


End file.
